


18 Millimetres

by Yeomanrand



Series: Thou art no thy lane [1]
Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Episode Tag, Gen, Mystery, POV Male Character, POV Third Person, Post The Great Game
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-10-14
Updated: 2011-10-14
Packaged: 2017-10-24 14:36:05
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,286
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/264600
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Yeomanrand/pseuds/Yeomanrand
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Following The Great Game, Sherlock tries to puzzle out a few things about John.</p><p>Teaser: <i>Sherlock blinks, re-focusing on John instead of the past. Amused annoyance, he identifies in the quirk of John's mouth and his folded arms. A perfect shot that he can't have had much time to aim, taken with his off-hand. Movement as soon as Sherlock squeezed the trigger.</i></p>
            </blockquote>





	18 Millimetres

**Author's Note:**

> From the prompt: _John shoots far too well for a run-of-the-mill army doctor. Sherlock knows this and says nothing._

_They called him 'mouse'. Why mouse? Strange nickname for a soldier._

Sherlock folds his hands together, index fingers pressed against his lips. He's stretched out on the couch, watching with frank appraisal while John putters around the kitchen; John, focused on the mundane task of setting things to rights after their absence from the flat, is either oblivious or ignoring him.

Sherlock suspects the former, but is strangely pleased he can't rule out the latter.

Of course, he's known since the incident with the cabbie that John has excellent reflexes; in reviewing the scene after John had gone to sleep, he'd realised John had to have pulled off the shot with his _right_ hand, rather than his dominant left. Army training aside, that fact made it an even more extraordinary piece of marksmanship. 

The limp was psychosomatic, no mistake there, and John showed none of the symptoms of PTSD despite the beliefs of his idiotic therapist. He'd been angry with Sherlock for shooting the wall out of boredom, but the gunfire hadn't triggered him. Having a bomb strapped to him had weakened his knees, but once freed John had stayed in a crouch so he could move, rather than folding all the way to the floor.

John regretted Soo Lin Yao's death, but it hadn't devastated him the way Sherlock anticipated. He'd been no more fazed by killing Shan's man than he had the cabbie. War-hardened, certainly, but still forgiving beneath the edges.

Quiet as a mouse? Timid as a mouse — but no, everything he knows about John says that's the wrong interpretation. What is he missing? He'd meant it when he told John there was always something.

"Are you planning on staring at me all night?"

Sherlock blinks, re-focusing on John instead of the past. Amused annoyance, he identifies in the quirk of John's mouth and his folded arms. A perfect shot that he can't have had much time to aim, taken with his off-hand.

"Sherlock?"

The shockingly precise aim of the crossbow from what appeared to be a wild kick. A missing piece, somewhere. Something he's deleted?

"Sherlock." Impatient this time, concerned as well, despite John being told Sherlock can fall into speechless fugues for days on end. Sherlock's eyes narrow; he rolls to his side, facing John more fully. Not something he's deleted. John is wearing the same jumper and shirt he'd left the flat in, before the pool, on his way to Sarah's. Sherlock's seldom seen him in less than two layers. Has Sarah?

Does that matter?

Sherlock's mouth opens, and he speaks.

"Why 'mouse'?"

John freezes in place. "What?"

"You heard me." He sits up, fully; John's gone from almost relaxed against the jamb to nearly parade rest. Interesting. "That army fellow, the former Jesuit, at the hospital. He called you 'Mouse.' A nickname, obviously; common enough among military types but usually along the lines of 'Hawkeye' or 'Black Bob' or 'The Auck' or the like. Mouse is unusual, something that either came with you _to_ the army — but didn't, the way you're holding yourself tells me that — or carries a specific meaning."

John bites his lip, then sets his jaw; Sherlock sees the effort it takes for John to force himself to relax. To give Sherlock a flash of his smile, utterly faked in this instance. But good, quite good. Someone not Sherlock might actually be fooled.

"A couple of the boys saddled me with it early on," he says. Lies, and again, quite well. "Because I was quiet, Sherlock, surely that must have occurred to you. Sometimes these things just stick." John adds a shrug, too casual.

"You don't care for it."

"No," John answers, and that is the unvarnished truth. "Not particularly. I expect you've deleted the film _Ladyhawke_ , if you ever saw it in the first place?"

Sherlock frowns; he keeps limited summaries of films on his hard drive. One never knows when some small piece of fictional trivia might prove important.

"Wolves and hawks and a thief called...Mouse." Ah. "You found the comparison unflattering."

"Something like."

So that's not it, either. Or at least, not precisely it. Too much of a connection between John and the thief?

"Look, Sherlock, I know you'll be up for days yet but I'm knackered. See you in the morning."

"Mm." No, John's never shown an inclination to assist, or anything but nerves when they've gone housebreaking; Sherlock's had to do all the work.

A huff of a chuckle, a quick glance at Sherlock, and John heads upstairs. When Sherlock hears the door close, he pulls up his laptop; not that he expects much to come of an Internet search and nothing does, but skimming web pages gives his hands something to do while his mind ticks over the problem.

His phone chirps; a text message. Mycroft. He almost deletes it.

_Dare I ask why you've developed a sudden interest in the wildlife of Afghanistan? — MH_

_Stop spying. Why bother asking the obvious? — SH_ He sends the text with a disdainful sniff; Mycroft could certainly do better than that.

_I'm really not. And why 'Ladyhawke,' Sherlock? You hate fantasy. — MH_

Sherlock scowls at the phone, but it beeps again before he can compose a satisfactory response.

_And it's not for a case. Don't be childish. — MH_

He's typed "Sod off" before he's finished thinking it, and only quick fingers stop him actually sending the message.

_Where's Moriarty? — SH_

_No sign. Don't change the subject. — MH_

Sherlock stares into space again, forgetting to even consider a retort. Mycroft...and his extensive resources...and there was the something he was missing. 

Mycroft.

John.

Something Mycroft doesn't know. 

_I assume your flatmate, being a sensible sort, is sleeping. — MH_

Sherlock's eyes narrow. Something John had been a bit too casual about.

_That's not stopped you before — SH_

Sherlock sends, then asks himself why he's still answering. Mycroft's unlikely to text John this time. And it's a distraction. He powers the phone all the way down, steps over the coffee table to stop at the window. Pools of light under the streetlamps, no traffic.

Streetlamps. Walking down the street.

_"...we do have a Secret Service."_

_"I know. I've met them."_

"Mouse."

"For God's sake, Sherlock, please don't."

Sherlock startles, turning partway around but it's only John standing in the stairwell, wrapped in his robe. Sherlock doesn't bother to cover his surprise.

"Mice," he offers, when John doesn't say anything further, "can fit into the oddest places; their bones and cartilage are incredibly flexible, allowing them to fit through a space a whisker smaller than 18 millimetres."

John pinches the bridge of his nose and doesn’t smile at the joke. "Yes, lovely. What did Mycroft want?"

"What?"

"Mycroft. I can't imagine who else would be texting you at this hour."

“Checking up. Being Mycroft.” Being annoying, he means, and John does follow that if the small smile is any indication. It fades quickly, though.

“Nothing on Moriarty, then.”

Sherlock shakes his head. “No.”

John nods, sober again. 

“Mouse died, Sherlock, out there in the desert. I told Mike I wasn’t the John Watson he knew, and I’m not the Mouse that Bill knew, either.” He rubs his hand over the back of his neck. “I won’t ask you not to chase it, because then you’ll really sink your teeth in. But it’s a bit like the earth going around the sun.”

“Irrelevant to what we do?”

“Utterly.”

Not bloody likely, not if his John’s a stone-cold killer lurking in fuzzy jumpers. But any further data, and there is data to be had, is beyond Sherlock’s reach for the time being. Which he hates admitting.

To think Donovan worries about _him_ putting people in the morgue.

❧

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks to [Shinychimera](http://archiveofourown.org/users/shinychimera) for the beta, and I made some other edits based on the lovely comment by [Disassembly_Rsn](http://archiveofourown.org/users/Disassembly_Rsn). All other errors and Americanisms mine. Concrit welcome.

**Works inspired by this one:**

  * [Cover for Thou Art No Thy Lane](https://archiveofourown.org/works/479397) by [moonblossom graphics (moonblossom)](https://archiveofourown.org/users/moonblossom/pseuds/moonblossom%20graphics)




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